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Boy In Chiffon
He locked the door of his room. He lived in a simple middle class house. His room had light blue color walls with a window allowing the sunlight to smear onto the floor, a light colored printed curtain hanging over.
He looked into the red color plain chiffon sari with the sari lining printed black; he was holding by his left hand that he just stealthily got from his sister’s wardrobe, and thought something deeply for a while. He then stared towards the mirror and started moving towards it with slow pace, his mind continue thinking something. He then took off his clothes and put on the underskirt and the blouse. He looked into the mirror; started draping the sari around his masculine fig. He put some ponds powder across his cheeks and a bindi on his forehead and filled the eyelids with kohl which he had stolen along with the sari. He also wore red lipstick on the lips and some bangles on both the hands. He stood there for some time admiring himself with a slight smile across his lips. His lips curved more as he adored himself from every angle.
But all of a sudden his smile vanished into an anguish pain of truth, a pain of wanton, a pain of an unknown ignominy which gives thousands of sleepless nights, a pain to become someone who he is? Or, maybe it was a pain of strength and weakness he carries. He was a daydreamer, a night thinker, stupidity was his wonder to fit into the society as herself.
With an abrupt jerk he snatched out the piece from his body and threw it to a corner of the room. He started throwing everything around him brutally. Sitting at one corner surronded by broken pieces of the mirror, tears rolled down his cheeks effortlessly. His eyes fogged up that was mirroring the pain he owns. There was a mixture of emotions creeping his small but deep black eyes filled with black kohl. He was crying incoherently; wailing like a baby, loud enough for his mother to rush.
Soon the floor was decorated with broken glasses and other harmless objects which has just become a mere spectator of his melancholic happiness in feminism! His mother stood near the door silently.
-Prerana
He looked into the red color plain chiffon sari with the sari lining printed black; he was holding by his left hand that he just stealthily got from his sister’s wardrobe, and thought something deeply for a while. He then stared towards the mirror and started moving towards it with slow pace, his mind continue thinking something. He then took off his clothes and put on the underskirt and the blouse. He looked into the mirror; started draping the sari around his masculine fig. He put some ponds powder across his cheeks and a bindi on his forehead and filled the eyelids with kohl which he had stolen along with the sari. He also wore red lipstick on the lips and some bangles on both the hands. He stood there for some time admiring himself with a slight smile across his lips. His lips curved more as he adored himself from every angle.
But all of a sudden his smile vanished into an anguish pain of truth, a pain of wanton, a pain of an unknown ignominy which gives thousands of sleepless nights, a pain to become someone who he is? Or, maybe it was a pain of strength and weakness he carries. He was a daydreamer, a night thinker, stupidity was his wonder to fit into the society as herself.
With an abrupt jerk he snatched out the piece from his body and threw it to a corner of the room. He started throwing everything around him brutally. Sitting at one corner surronded by broken pieces of the mirror, tears rolled down his cheeks effortlessly. His eyes fogged up that was mirroring the pain he owns. There was a mixture of emotions creeping his small but deep black eyes filled with black kohl. He was crying incoherently; wailing like a baby, loud enough for his mother to rush.
Soon the floor was decorated with broken glasses and other harmless objects which has just become a mere spectator of his melancholic happiness in feminism! His mother stood near the door silently.
-Prerana
